Madame Chrysantheme eBook

We have come at the wrong moment; there is a file
of people at the door. Long rows of djins’
cars are stationed there, awaiting the customers they
have brought, who will all have their turn before us.
The runners, naked and tatooed, carefully combed in
sleek bands and shiny chignons, are chatting together,
smoking little pipes, or bathing their muscular legs
in the fresh water of the torrent.

The courtyard is irreproachably Japanese, with its
lanterns and dwarf trees. But the studio where
one sits might be in Paris or Pontoise; the self-same
chair in “old oak,” the same faded “poufs,”
plaster columns and pasteboard rocks.

The people who are being taken at this moment
are two ladies of quality, evidently mother and daughter,
who are sitting together for a cabinet-sized portrait,
with accessories of Louis XV. time. A strange
group this, the first great ladies of this country
I have seen so near, with their long aristocratic
faces, dull, lifeless, almost gray by dint of rice-powder,
and their mouths painted heart-shape in vivid carmine.
Withal an undeniable look of good breeding that strongly
impresses us, notwithstanding the intrinsic differences
of races and acquired notions.

They scanned Chrysantheme with an obvious look of
scorn, although her costume was as ladylike as their
own. For my part, I could not take my eyes off
these two creatures; they captivated me like incomprehensible
things that one had never seen before. Their fragile
bodies, outlandishly graceful in posture, are lost
in stiff materials and redundant sashes, of which
the ends droop like tired wings. They make me
think, I know not why, of great rare insects; the extraordinary
patterns on their garments have something of the dark
motley of night-moths. Above all, the mystery
of their tiny slits of eyes, drawn back and up so
far that the tight-drawn lids can scarcely open; the
mystery of their expression, which seems to denote
inner thoughts of a silly, vague, complacent absurdity,
a world of ideas absolutely closed to ourselves.
And I think as I gaze at them: “How far
we are from this Japanese people! how utterly dissimilar
are our races!”

Then we have to let several English sailors pass before
us, decked out in their white drill clothes, fresh,
fat and pink like little sugar figures, who attitudinize
in a sheepish manner round the shafts of the columns.

At last it is our turn; Chrysantheme slowly settles
herself in a very affected style, turning in the points
of her toes as much as possible, according to the
fashion.

And on the negative we are shown we look like a supremely
ridiculous little family drawn up in a line by a common
photographer at a fair.

XLVI.

September 13th.

This evening Yves is off duty three hours earlier
than myself; from time to time this is the case, according
to the arrangement of the watches. On those occasions
he lands the first, and goes up to wait for me at
Diou-djen-dji.